


A View From a Barricade

by theangrywarlock



Series: View [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Breathplay, Flogging, Gangbang, Knifeplay, M/M, Multi, Rape, Torture, Watersports, electro-magnetic sex, fireplay, forced humiliation, gunsex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 03:13:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theangrywarlock/pseuds/theangrywarlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras gets captured by the national guard instead of Jehan. Seriously, read the tags. Please read the tags. This fic is part of a series. If you can't handle violence of this calibre, the next part of the series will cover the aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A View From a Barricade

“Marius!” Courfeyrac’s exuberance over his friend’s arrival and subsequent save was overwhelming. While his friends had often seen him in high spirits, Marius’ interactions with Courfeyrac’s joviality weren’t as often, and each time he still felt new to the sensation of being almost violently embraced. “You saved the barricade!”

Combeferre watched from a short distance, making certain that the explosive was nullified firstly, and then listening in to the reports of the dead.

Bahorel had not made it. This sobering news descended upon the Amis moreso than the volunteers. The other men knew that casualties along the way would be counted in their number, but each of the lieutenants felt the loss more acutely.

“Where is Jehan?” Combeferre called out.

“Here!” Jehan made his way toward Combeferre, but stopped and paled terribly at the sight of Bahorel. “What- but he-” It was a struggle to find the right words, and it was with shaking hands that Jehan touched Bahorel’s still warm, still bleeding body.

Combeferre respectfully turned away from the scene, anxious now to take the reports to Enjolras, but their chief was nowhere to be seen.

Instead, the alcove was empty save for a few blood smears along the floor. A sinking feeling settled itself in the pit of his stomach. “Courfeyrac?” He called out. His friend was still talking to Marius but he turned to face Combeferre at the second, far more desperate, cry of his name.

“What is it?”

“Where is Enjolras?”

“He’s-” And now Courfeyrac was looking within the alcove, within the faces of the volunteers, within the window of the Corinthe, within every crevice of the barricade, only pausing at the sound of Feuilly’s voice coming down from the second floor of the shop.

Feuilly yelled Enjolras’ name, but in that tone, Combeferre could fill in the grisly details. Hand over hand, he climbed up the barricade, expecting to see a firing squad of a sort.

He almost wished that had been the case.

If there was one man who knew of the risks regarding a revolution, it would be Enjolras. He had studied enough history, enough of times of civil unrest to not see the consequences of either failure or success. He was a hopeful optimist, but also a pragmatist when it came to certain patterns. Should they succeed with this revolution, there were possibilities of the Republic coming under attack along with the chance that another victory would be robbed from them.

It was the consequences of their failure that grabbed his attention. He was well aware that the chance for success was high, but there was always that slim risk that the people would not rise, that they would all become martyrs for those who were too afraid to fight. He simply did not care about the risks. Should they fail, he would either be killed or be placed in prison, likely for the rest of his life.

The freedom of people was worth his life. It was worth many lives since it encompassed even more people than those who were at the barricades, than those who resided in France. It was a statement that the entire world would have to notice. A movement that went against the oppression of the monarchy, that flat-out told those that would seek to rule others that mankind was born free and will reject his chains.

Due to this, Enjolras led a life of high personal risk. He had been in brawls before, had defended his words along with his person. He knew he was an unwelcome guest in many avenues and would have to emphasize his points violently should he need to escape. In short, he had a very high pain tolerance. The downside? Sometimes he was too light.

He could fight and fight hard. A solid hit from him could break a bone if he knew where to land it, and he trained very hard to know where to land it. But even he couldn’t hold up against an overrun of larger men. It was an unfairness that had little to do with the freedom of mankind and everything to do with his personal freedom this night.

In retrospect, it didn’t matter how he had been taken from the barricade. What mattered was that he had been taken and when he gained consciousness, he found that he had been forcibly blindfolded. He was expecting the company of a firing squad and to hear a very loud report before his life ended. Instead, a hand grabbed ahold of his head underneath his chin. Fingertips dug cruelly into the side of his jaw, forcing his mouth to open.

At first, he had little idea what was pushed inside his mouth, but the unique scent of musk, that sort that defined ‘man’ so much, and the feel of the damnable object pushing itself back against his throat left him in a near state of shock almost immediately.

Death was one matter. Something he had been willing to meet head-on.

This sort of indignity was something else. He hadn’t feared anything throughout the night, save for the deaths of his friends but none for himself, yet here and now, fear came to him, bringing with a sense of nausea along with the unknown.

“If you bite, we’ll slit your friend’s throat.”

The words were spoken in an almost joyful way. It was far from what Enjolras had been expecting, considering the act being perpetrated here. When someone impedes upon another in such a way, shouldn’t their voice be raspy? Menacing? Worst of all, shouldn’t they be threatening bodily harm to himself rather than another?

But they knew him better than to threaten his own neck.

And that’s what made his blood run cold.

So he did not dare bite down; not even when the man thrusted harshly into his throat, gripping his hair to hold his head in place. Beneath the blindfold, Enjolras shut his eyes, hoping that this would end soon. If there was someone else, then their life depended on him being obedient. At least until something else happened, either with the others on the barricade, or through some happy circumstance.

Play along. It was all he could do.

Though he couldn’t resist coughing on the man’s seed as he was forced onto hands and knees after his assailant had finished with his mouth.

The rope came next, and he could have told them that he would obey, that he would do what was needed, but he knew his words wouldn’t be believed. He couldn’t see just what he was tied to, only that in spite of his arms and legs being held down by rope, there were other hands on him that already made him want to flinch away.

A knife came down, cutting through his dark waistcoat and shirt, the blade tilting a little to cut into his skin. The cuts burned seconds after his skin was split, for the blade of the knife was sharpened to a thin fineness. He could feel his blood dripping down off his skin and then a sick wetness dabbing against the wound.

Their voices became louder and louder until he could hear them over the rushing of blood in his ears.

“You always were a sadistic bastard.”

Laughter. He couldn’t recognize the voices, but the knife came again and this time he couldn’t hold back the scream that wrenched through his throat as the burn from the blade increased ten-fold.

The knife moved in a set direction, careful, controlled. It carved into the pale perfection of Enjolras’ chest, grazing past a nipple. Sometimes the man’s tongue came against his skin. Most of the time it was just the chill air against him. Enjolras couldn’t tell what had been done to him. A word, he thought. The markings were too precise for it to just be a rudimentary series of cuts.

And then the knife was gone and already his throat felt sore. He moved his head to the side, unable to see anything still.

The wetness that hit his skin had nothing to do with anyone’s tongue. The hands upon his arms and legs moved away, but he couldn’t enjoy their disengagement. The stream of liquid that hit his chest burned even more than the knife and he clenched his jaw this time, in fear of that liquid getting into his mouth.

“Fit for a rebel.”

The stench of urine filled the air and Enjolras strained against his bonds as he gradually dismissed the idea of there being someone else in their clutches.

Courfeyrac had turned a sickly shade of green. “Do…something,” he ground out at Combeferre, his voice as distant as Enjolras was to them.

Combeferre had been over several scenarios in his head. They could shoot the guards centered around Enjolras, but if even one person missed, there was a good chance that Enjolras would immediately be shot and killed. It was also impossible to tell just how many there were due to all the gunsmoke.

This sort of situation had never come up in their talks. There were ideas bandied about, to never leave a man behind, versus when to leave a man behind so that you could stay alive and pick off those who came to kill the one left behind. But this…what they were doing to him went against all rules in Combeferre’s head.

He could handle the violence of the barricade. He could handle the loss of life that he knew would occur. What he could not handle were Enjolras’ screams. They weren’t normal, weren’t agonized over pain, not really. They were more animal-like than anything else, and Combeferre turned to his side to regard Jehan who had gone disturbingly pale.

“The hostage,” Combeferre blurted out. “Get the damn hostage! We can do a trade!”

Jehan didn’t move. Bahorel and he had a past and it killed him to lose his lover, while at the same time, he was faced with another horror coming from the other side of the barricade. There were tears cascading down his cheeks.

Any other time and Combeferre would have tried to console him before ordering him to do anything. Tonight, right now, he was the de facto leader of the barricade, and he could barely stand to hear anymore, let alone have to watch what was happening.

“Jehan!” His voice was sharp and curt, but it got Jehan’s attention. “The hostage in the Corinthe! The spy! Get him and we’ll do a trade!”

Jehan barely nodded but he let go of Bahorel to rush into the cafe.

Combeferre glanced at Courfeyrac who was still watching the scene out of one eye, his rifle raised. His hands were shaking however, so Combeferre hoped Courfeyrac wouldn’t open fire.

He forced himself to turn back to the scene on the other side of the barricade.

Nothing was being asked of him. That was one of the more horrendous aspects about the ordeal. No one was saying much of anything to him. They didn’t ask how many volunteers, how much ammunition was left, how many guns. They weren’t asking about the spy they caught and still held. When words did come, they were congratulatory to one another, all in the same pleased tones as though they had just triumphed over some small event rather than what they were actually doing.

The knife made a return, this time cutting into his pants. The blade’s tip cut a slender wound down Enjolras’ left leg, but he had come to expect that sort of thing. In such a short amount of time, his body had started to become accustomed to the pain. Either that or he was going into shock.

Combeferre would probably say that his mind was distancing itself from the horrors of what was happening, but Enjolras didn’t want Combeferre’s voice inside his head right now. Combeferre wouldn’t judge but he would…

He would sympathize.

He would pity.

He would feel so very, very sorry for his friend, and Enjolras could only focus on what was going on now rather than on what-ifs. There was always the chance that he wouldn’t be surviving this night and this was just his death being drawn out.

A final torture for the one they had to know was the leader of the barricade.

Was he distracting himself with such thoughts?

A vicious slap across the face jolted him out of his distance and put him right back onto the ground.

“Welcome back.”

He had no time to respond when another pain, this one far more obscene and centered far lower than his face sliced through him. His mouth opened but no sound came out. It was as though he was slowly being choked starting from his lungs and ending somewhere within his esophagus. He could barely breathe, even as the man set up a brutal rhythm that he had little chance of following were he even a willing participant.

All new sensations poured into his being and the first one that rooted itself into his brain was that this was not only happening, this was inherently disgraceful. It wasn’t that he begrudged his friends their pleasures. He didn’t bat an eye at Joly and Bossuet’s trinity of Musichetta. Nor did he care whatsoever about Bahorel and Jehan. He fobbed off Grantaire’s clumsy advances toward his person, not taking any offense to them. A person was a person was a person, and all deserved to be uplifted.

But sex, in general, simply wasn’t for him. He didn’t find the act distasteful, just distracting. He could always think of something he’d rather be doing if he had to think on carnal pleasures at all. He would prefer confining himself to his study to read instead of indulging another, chasing after some orgasm that didn’t last that long and always required cleaning afterwards. A waste of time.

Now, this was more than just an offense against his body. This was an offense against his very being, his mind, and the choices he made for himself. For a man who cared little about his well-being in service to the Republic, Enjolras cared very much for his own rights.

This was a violation he had never considered for himself, but he was forced into having his face rubbed into it. Every movement, every scrap of pain was a violation of what he regarded as his own purity. He kept himself ready for battle, poised for anything that would damage the Republic.

In just a few movements, his defenses felt torn asunder. As did the rest of his body, as though it was his attacker’s intent to rip him in two.

He could not scream even after the initial assault ended and he felt a cold liquid fill up within him. The pain rested against his heart like a heavy anchor as another man took up the empty space, and Enjolras’ teeth clenched as he was once more violated.

The knife came down against his flaccid cock. “I don’t think he’s getting off on this.”

Once again, words not directed toward himself. Still, he dared not move, save for the force of the man inside of him pushing him back and forth with his rhythm.

“If you’re not enjoying this, then I guess his cock would be a waste, wouldn’t it?”

Another fear swept through Enjolras’ body, and yet, it brought with it some relief for all the wrong reasons.

Yes, cut it off, he thought. And then let me bleed to death.

It wouldn’t be a dignified way to go, and his thoughts surprised even him, but just as the man taking him roughly burst out in laughter, the knife was removed from his person.

He felt his head tilted back by the hair and dared not fight against it. His mouth was once again pried open, but at least this time he knew what was coming. Again, there was the temptation to bite down once the member filled his mouth and set to moving, but that wouldn’t get him far. One man, wounded, what would that matter?

And why should he? His dignity was already stripped. He couldn’t move any of his limbs, and his body was still being plundered, still being filled, and the sticky wetness that coated his thighs wasn’t just semen. What good could he do right now?

“Hold him like that.”

As though he was going anywhere.

Ah, dry thoughts. Perhaps that was his defense mechanism kicking in?

Strong hands suddenly closed about his throat, causing Enjolras’ eyes to widen behind the blindfold. At first, he welcomed the harsh squeezing against his windpipe, hoping for some form of oblivion.

He had no idea what jump started his natural survival instinct, but as he started to lose consciousness, he instinctively set to fighting against this new attack. His body jerked and pushed against his bonds. His legs moved against the thighs of his attacker, who had ceased his movements in order to strangle his prey. Enjolras’ head would have been moving, had a cock not been down his throat. His teeth started to close, causing the man to move out of his mouth.

“Warn me next time!”

Enjolras couldn’t bring himself to be relieved that the vile taste was out of his throat. He still couldn’t breathe and he opened his mouth to try and gasp and scream while every muscle in his body tightened.

“Yes, oh yes…”

And the man within him came inside, pulling out while he did so in order to make a bigger mess between Enjolras’ thighs. As he came, he loosened his grip from around Enjolras’ throat, causing the young man to gasp for air and cough as his throat struggled to take in as much as it could. His lungs burned as harshly as his chest and lower body.

“Get the cup.”

Clearly not orders given to him, and Enjolras was once more left in the dark as to just what these people wanted, if anything at all. Not that he was willing to give out names or information, but if they just asked, if they did something to prove that maybe all of this was justified, then…

Then what?

What did it matter what they wanted? He was trying to make sense out of an illogical situation.

The alcohol burned against his wounds, coming so unexpectedly that Enjolras let out a violent scream as the substance got inside his wounds, mingling with the urine, and almost making him gag on the smell alone.

He had no time to recover from the pain when a burned hot cup was pressed against his skin, causing the split wounds to rise upwards due to the suction and heat of the cup.

“I see you’re making the marks permanent.”

“It’s so he can be identified when this is all over.”

Enjolras could barely hear them over his own cries. More alcohol was applied to his chest, most notably where the knife had sliced into him before, and that was quickly followed by more heat.

His bonds held him tight as he wrenched his body side to side, trying to avoid something when he couldn’t even see where it was coming. Again, there was that laughter and the third man took his position between his legs.

He was harder to penetrate now as his body remained tense and unyielding. The sharp friction of the man pumping inside of him only increased his agony, and yet he couldn’t relax, not even to spare himself the pain. His cries, which started out sharp, again became muted as his throat started to feel raw.

When the alcohol was no longer being poured onto him, Enjolras didn’t even notice. His mind felt exhausted. His body couldn’t stop trembling.

“Think he’s going to sleep on us.”

Enjolras shifted harshly underneath the man, unable to move around the pain in his arse and the bonds.

“Please,” he finally said, his voice breaking due to his past screams. He didn’t even know what he was asking for, though mercy would have been a safe bet.

Instead, he felt a belt come down harshly onto his much abused skin, which ushered out even more screams until he could taste blood. The belt came down over and over, leaving behind red welts against burned, open and raw skin until it moved down to Enjolras’ stomach and abdomen, causing the bound man to writhe against the ground.

It was futile to try and get away, yet still Enjolras fought as much against the pain as he did the oblivion which continuously threatened him with spots within his vision.

“They want to deal?”

It was a question, but like everything else, they were words not directed at Enjolras who had been granted a very short reprieve while the regime talked amongst themselves.

“A spy.”

And all Enjolras could glean was that the ones on the barricade were willing to trade, which made two pieces of information that he desperately clung to. His friends were alive and they knew he was captured. Everything else felt irrelevant.

“Tell them no.”

His heart sank. Surely a spy, surely one of their own…

“We’re enjoying their little revolution too much over here.”

They wouldn’t trade. As a strategist, Enjolras couldn’t blame them. What was one spy to the leader of a barricade? There would be a drop in morale, there would be a thinly-veiled need to get him back, and the spy’s life, once it was learned would get the insurgents nothing in return, more ammunition would be wasted on the spy’s head.

Enjolras understood the risks all too well.

His legs couldn’t be spread any further apart than they already were, exposing nearly everything from his waist down. He could smell his own blood over the burnt skin, alcohol, and urine. He couldn’t see himself, but he knew he had to be an absolutely repulsive mess. Caring whatsoever about any of that came hard. Caring about living was starting to become harder.

So when another man took his place between his thighs, Enjolras could barely bring himself to bracing against the next rape. Instead of a cock, however, something long, slim, and cold was placed up inside of him.

“Bet they fucked one another with these,” one of them was saying. “Got off to how they would make a difference. Couldn’t keep it in their pants.”

Being a marksman, Enjolras knew full well what had just gone up inside of him and he tensed despite himself.

One wrong move.

A defective trigger.

Why were they doing this? Why would they even do this to him? What did they hope to get out of it?

And then the gun was moving, in and out of himself, bringing with it a new form of sickness to Enjolras. One wrong move was all it took. Would he die from it? He wasn’t sure. The angle, maybe, it depended on the angle. Either way, should he survive his life would barely be worth living.

A muffled sob erupted out of him before he could stop it. He wasn’t crying, but the noise still came out as a small protest, the only one he could bring up, against his treatment. His worries came out as well with that sob, a slight refusal to go quietly into the night. He dared not move, dared not even squirm, so all he could do was try and let them know that they had won.

But what had they won? And what were they really after? Surely not a breakdown. A denouncement of the barricade and the Republic? If so, Enjolras could not give them that.

“I think he’s enjoying this one.” And then the gun was pushed forwards too roughly, too deeply, which brought out another sharp cry of pain, followed by a second broken sob.

“Oops.”

They were going to kill him. Little by little. Piece by piece. They were going to kill him starting from his lower regions, steadily moving upwards to a final, merciful bullet to the brain. Enjolras was suddenly certain of this and so he steeled his own resolve when the rifle barrel was pulled out of him.

“Think he deserves a little reward for that.”

His hands were unbound from whatever he had been tied to, only for the man behind him to tie his wrists closer together as he was forced to sit up. The muscles in his legs protested the movement and the shift of blood and skin brought a new wave of pain to his body as his skin shifted with every action.

Enjolras felt like vomiting.

His legs were still spread apart as he was propped up on his knees, at least two men keeping him forced upright.

He could feel blood and other fluids dripping out of him as his hair was grabbed tightly, forcing his head to remain upwards. It would have been a defiant look had his body not been shaking.

“What’s that?”

“New invention. Been making the rounds by this man. Traveling salesman, I guess you could say.”

A mouth came down close to his ear. “Remember to smile.”

His arsecheeks were spread apart and another cold and metal rod was inserted up into his body. Not a gun, he knew. It didn’t feel anything like a barrel. It was far too slender, and after everyone had their go at him, this object felt almost like a relief.

The blindfold was abruptly removed from his face and his world lit up by the barest of a fraction. There was still so much gunsmoke in the air, and yet he could easily make out the sight of the barricade.

He was facing the barricade.

The shame was what nearly destroyed him. It brought him to a dangerous precipice and he was unable to either blink or look away. He knew his friends were there.

He knew they were alive.

He knew they were watching. Had been watching the entire time. Bearing witness to his treatment, to his depravity. Watching as he had been violated repeatedly, heard his screams, knew that he had broken down, and at this moment, he could not handle the looks he knew they would be giving to him. But he saw them all so clearly in his mind’s eye. There was no escape from the humiliation that he felt.

Until the rod inside of him switched one and he felt a jolt of something crash right through his spinal cord, rushing up into his brain, and giving him a harsh taste of what would later be called electricity. This one was via magnets, and it crashed against that small slice of his brain, provoking him, no…

Forcing him into an unexpected, unwanted orgasm that hurt just as much physically as it did mentally. There was no word for the surprise of his own body, and Enjolras could not put words to feelings any longer.

He could only feel betrayal. Betrayed within his own body, the desire to crawl out of his own skin, the need to just curl up and never be seen again, and the knowledge that his friends had just witnessed his own betrayal. As though he had enjoyed something that was done to him. The ripping of his own purity somehow justified because of this one final act.

The rod was released from his body, and a hand violently shoved him over. He landed on his face and still bleeding chest, uncaring now about the pain. He embraced it as punishment.

He had no idea just what they had done to make him react so, but all those years of training his body, of knowing his limits inside and out, all seemed like a waste.

He lay there in the dirt, knowing at long last how unworthy he was to lead. And now, his friends knew his weakness. Knew his shame, knew his filth.

The gunshots came from both sides of the guardsmen. One side from the barricade, which opened fire, and from the oncoming mass of people. It was a pincer move, Enjolras knew, his brain barely able to focus on the goings-on. A guardsman dropped beside him, his eyes glassy. Enjolras rather thought that his own eyes looked much the same.

It felt like an eternity.

When the gunshots ended, save for the repetitive sound of them within Enjolras’ head, he felt a long coat being draped over his body.

Combeferre, eyes filled with an unspeakable sadness, knelt over him. “It’s over. The other regime from the barricade on Saint Merry has come. We’ve won.”

It was the only news Enjolras wanted to hear. He finally shut his eyes and gave in to sweet oblivion.


End file.
